all i want for christmas is a new reality

i see jesus and judas making love

what is your escape
your filthy little whimper
the wrapper beneath the pillow
the stain on your lips
dirty nails
glowing eyes
what is your drug?

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i hear a recording, low-poor quality (youtube gold). my fingers curl, my legs squirm, feet yearn to move, my head rolls, lolls, eyes fluttering closed i am there, all over again. the sound so full its you, pounding, thrashing until your ribs are the ones producing the beat ... beat ... beat ... all you do is pound out the bass, let it pour from your screaming mouth, the boy licks sweat from your neck, you are the dancer, the music, the throbbing writhing drug.
 you, altered, alive, no future, no past. just movement. in this moment you are the drop, the pulsing reaction, you are as full as you can be. seeping through my cracks, its coming, the explosion, the afterwards, but just for now let me have ... one ... more ... yesssssss.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

my pupils, jet black,
engulfing the irises
take you in. suck you up.
what is your story
your moment
your pupils, jet black,
engulfing the irises
take me in. suck me up.
now, now you are mine.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


i saw jesus and judas
making love.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

within the breath

the organized chaos of this room is forcing me into lines, boxed shapes. the manufactured grain of the wood matches the flyeye speakers.

bands on my fingers, synthetic on my toes, structured, man-made.

the whorls of shadow, cast by my confusion don't fit in the drawers.

there are edges and middles and we make it, we create it, we place it there and expect it to be there upon our return and it is, because we are the makers. we are the water. the icebergs and this room is the ground, the mountains, aching for valleys to mediate the jagged edges, to promote the raw sexuality of the straining molecules. this is the room with the chemical paint finish. with the flat realities and legal identities. this is the room without glass portals, this is the room of our descent.

my memory knows something else. something farther away. where the whorls are lifted, memorized. in that place we impose labels, lines, but they are shaken. they are thin veils, sheer, flirty. useless. for when the dance starts, those veils fall, one-by-one, and we are left naked, exposed to our others. in the place we haven't created, we change nothing and it will always change. in this place birthmarks become continent maps. wineglasses are swimming pools for butterfly nannies, where nailpolish is a figment of the goats imagination. we are in the valleys, the left over sex-scent of carnal beginnings. we are inanimate. we are the intimate. we are there and that is us and without our veils we fly apart, our pieces finding niches. our glistening, is all the light and we are all that we can see, hear, we are the sensation of a lovers tongue, we are the tip of destruction and the definition of breathe.